


Pack of Three, or, You can never have too many potatoes

by Alex51324



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Waverly sets the trio up in a London apartment.  Napoleon and Gaby immediately start making themselves at home, while Illya skulks around like a lodger who's behind on rent.<br/>OR<br/>Since Gaby and Solo are obviously a couple now, so Illya politely gives them their space, and does not resent this.  At all.  Really.  <br/>A 5 times + 1 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack of Three, or, You can never have too many potatoes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】三个一组 / 土豆永远不嫌多](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10841721) by [luwangcai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luwangcai/pseuds/luwangcai)



1.

Illya had spent most of the day at the public library, only leaving when they closed for the night and the librarians apologetically threw him out. So far, the thing he liked best about London was the library: there was hardly anything that you had to have special permission from anyone to see, and he’d learned that they have let him take books home with him, too, if he’d had any identification he thought it was a good idea to show them. 

Mr. Waverly had provided them a flat—five rooms, plus kitchen and bath, for just the three of them. It was, he said, their home base when not on missions. Solo, of course, had complained—about having to share, about the neighborhood, which was apparently not “classy” enough for his liking—and Gaby had pointed out, practically, how much better it was for security to have them all together, and how convenient it was to the Tube stations. Illya just thought it was wonderful, after weeks of living out of hotel rooms. 

Returning that evening, he passed the dining room and heard Gaby laughing inside. “No, no,” she was saying. “It’s more like—”

He glanced in to see her and Solo tete-a-tete, with glasses of wine and plates of pasta. He froze, suddenly feeling that the apartment was not quite as wonderful as he had thought. 

“Illya!” Gaby said. “Look, Illya’s here!” 

She was, Illya thought, a little drunk. 

“Napoleon made pasta—pasta primo….”

“Primavera,” Solo said. “There’s plenty, on the stove.”

“I already ate,” he said, even though he hadn’t. “Good night.”

Later, he told himself that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Solo had just made too much food, and decided to share it. 

2.

The next morning, when Illya got to the kitchen, Gaby was there, fixing eggs and sausage—for one, he was relieved to see. “Morning, Illya.”

“Good morning.” He filled the kettle at the tap, and she moved aside automatically, still stirring her eggs, to make it easy for him to reach the part of the stove she wasn’t using.

Illya didn’t know if her apartment in Berlin had been private or communal, but she knew how to share living space with other people—unlike Solo, who left his things laying about in the rooms that were supposed to be for all of them. 

After putting the kettle on, he sliced some bread and put it in the oven to toast. He suspected someone was taking his food, too—he could have sworn there was more bread yesterday.   
Gaby scooped her breakfast onto a plate and leaned one hip against the counter to eat it. “Any plans for today?” she asked, in between forkfuls of eggs.

“Not really.” He might go to the library again. “Unless Mr. Waverly called?” Gaby always seemed to know more about what he had in store for them than he and Solo did. 

She shook her head. “Haven’t heard from him. I think he’s giving us some time to get settled.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

“I imagine, even if nothing urgent comes up, he’ll find some way of keeping us busy.”

Illya was eating his toast, and Gaby was finishing her eggs, when Solo stumbled blearily into the kitchen. “Why’re we all standing around in the kitchen for?”

“We were talking,” Illya said. Normally, he’d have taken his food back to his own room—like a civilized person—but with only three of them in the apartment, he didn’t think he was in anyone’s way. 

Apparently, Solo thought differently. 

Fumbling with his coffee pot, Solo asked, “Any of that for me?”

“No,” Gaby said, spearing the last sausage on her plate. “But I guess I could make more.” Chewing on the sausage, she went to the refrigerator. “I think I’m going shopping today,” she told Solo. 

“What kind of shopping?”

“Clothes,” she answered, cracking eggs into the skillet. “Most of what I have is for missions; I need some practical things. There are supposed to be some good department stores up around Oxford Street.”

As if making him breakfast didn’t make things clear enough, there was no reason—no professional reason—that Gaby needed to clear her plans with Solo. He wasn’t her superior, either of their superior. 

“There are,” Solo said. “You know what we ought to do—Saturday, we should go down to Portobello Road, and look for things for the house. There’s a lot of junk there, but sometimes you can get good deals.”

“That sounds nice. We don’t have enough lamps—and the curtains here are so filthy, but I think they might fall apart if we wash them.”

And now they were making plans to feather the love nest. How nice for them. 

Gaby was her own woman, he reminded himself. Unless she chose not to be. He could see why she chose Solo—he was cultured, a man of the world, and he certainly knew how to please a woman. Not to mention, he could make her an American citizen, if that was something she wanted. He didn’t know how long Mr. Waverly would be able to keep them, but he _did_ know that Gaby did not want to go back behind the Wall. 

Illya didn’t blame her—he didn’t have enough connections to protect himself in the Soviet Union, let alone a wife. And he didn’t know why he was even thinking that, since there was nothing between him and Gaby; they had only pretended to be engaged. She was kind enough to act as though the idea did not repel her, but a damaged, politically unreliable KGB agent was the last thing she’d want. 

The best thing he could do, he decided, was keep out of their way. Picking up his toast and tea, he went back to his room.

3\. 

Napoleon was right, the Portobello Road market was worth seeing. In addition to food of all kinds, Gaby saw vendors selling secondhand goods of every description, from valuable antiques to plain junk—and a great deal in between. There were second-hand vendors in East Berlin too, of course, but there, it was rare to find a bargain on anything that anyone might actually need. People tended to use what they had until it was completely worn out—or a little longer. If something with some use left it in was offered for sale, the prices rivaled what you would pay in a real store for a new item. If you could find it in a store, that is. 

Noticing a stall piled high with books, she said, “It’s too bad Illya didn’t come.” She had reminded him of the expedition before they left, but all he’d done was grunt.

“Too bad,” Napoleon echoed. “We could use a beast of burden.”

She glanced over at him. He was carrying rather a lot. Not realizing how much choice there would be, she had bought the first lamp she saw that was the right size to allow her to read in bed; half an hour later she had found another one that she liked much better. She had tried to get the second vendor to take the first lamp in partial payment, but he wouldn’t—but she was sure she could find a use for it; the apartment really didn’t have enough lamps. She hadn’t been able to find curtains that she liked, but she got a sewing machine for almost nothing, thinking she could make some; it was broken, but she was sure she could fix it. She was a little less confident of her ability to sew curtains, but how hard could it be? Another stall had provided a set of tools, a little rusty but still good, and yet another a radio. And Napoleon had chosen a few things, too: some plates—the apartment only came with four large ones and four small, which he said was not enough—a skillet—the one they had was unsuitable in some way she didn’t pretend to understand—and a squat, ugly salt cellar, entirely black with tarnish—she had no idea why. 

“At least let me carry one of the lamps,” she said. 

“No, no, I’m fine.” 

Gaby decided to take him at his word; if ended up with a sore back, it was his own fault for being macho. She looked over the books, thinking that she might find something to back for Illya. She knew he liked to read, because he often bought books at airports they passed through; he had also admitted, under intense questioning, that when he was out all day and evening he was usually at the library. But he was picky about books—he always complained about the selection at airports—and she didn’t know what to choose. 

After picking up a few books and putting them down, she shook her head and walked on. The next section of the market was mostly stalls selling food. There, Napoleon did let her carry one lamp and the bag with the radio and dishes, because he needed a free hand to fondle the fruits and vegetables. He looked over all the stalls before circling back to buy glossy eggplants, red-ripe tomatoes, and some bundles of herbs from a small, old Italian man. At the end of the transaction, the vendor pulled a big red flower from a bunch and presented it to her, saying, “No charge, for the _bella ragazza_.”

“He says that to everyone,” Napoleon groused, as they walked on.

“I’m sure he does,” Gaby agreed, tucking the flower behind her ear. 

“Not that is isn’t completely accurate, in your case,” he added quickly. 

Most of the food stalls were selling fresh fruits and vegetables, but Napoleon also selected some fist-sized balls of pale yellow cheese, and some skewers of spicy grilled meat, which they ate as they walked. 

After the food, they hit an area that seemed to most mostly the kind of thing Gaby’s aunt would have said was “good only for collecting dust.” Silver candlesticks, ornate clocks, cut crystal decanters. And paintings. Napoleon stopped to look at a stall specializing in these. His first move was to pretend abject ignorance, saying, when he saw something he liked, “Hey, honey, come have a gander at this,” in an exaggerated American accent. The stallholder saw through it, though, and before long he and Napoleon were chatting knowledgeably about the paintings on offer.

Keeping half an eye on Napoleon—she wasn’t sure how he could steal anything with his arms full, but she wouldn’t put it past him—she passed the time by looking at the nearby stalls. She was looking at a set of tea glasses in the Russian style, with silver cutwork holders, when Napoleon rejoined her. “You thinking for Peril?” he asked when he saw what she was looking at.

She put the glass down. “I’m sure they’re too expensive.” This was clearly not one of the parts of the market where bargains could be had. 

“Hm,” Napoleon said, picking up the glass. “Here.” He handed over some of the parcels to her, and took a jeweler’s loupe out of his pocket. Taking the glass out of the holder, he peered at the maker’s mark on the bottom of the holder. “They’re not antique—pre-Revolutionary, but just barely.” He then picked up the glass and examined the bottom of that, too. He chuckled a little and repeated the process with the other two in the set. “No, they should not be too expensive at all.” He gestured the stallholder over. “How much were you asking for these?”

The stallholder named a price that was even higher than she had expected.

Napoleon shook his head. 

“They’re real silver, from the time of the tsars,” he said. “Brought here by a noble family fleeing the Reds.”

“The holders, maybe,” Napoleon said. “Although why they’d bring their third-best when they fled, I don’t know. But the glasses don’t match; they’re Soviet.”

Frowning, Gaby picked up one of the glasses and its holder. They appeared to fit perfectly.

“Oh, well, the glasses, you know, they break easily….”

“Uh-huh. And there are only three of them.” Napoleon pressed his advantage, not mentioning that they only _needed_ three. 

He bargained the vendor down to a price less than half what had originally been asked. It was still more than Gaby would have been comfortable spending, but Napoleon took it out of his own wallet. The glasses were carefully wrapped in paper, nestled in a box, and the box placed inside a bag; Napoleon took back all of their earlier purchases and gave the bag to Gaby to carry.

“It’s still too much,” she protested as they went on. The glasses cost more than everything else they’d bought that day combined. 

Napoleon shook his head. “I’ll clear twice that on the salt cellar. Three times if I’m lucky. Still a profitable day.”

“That ugly thing is worth—” She could barely say the figure out loud.

“No accounting for taste.”

“You only paid fifty pence for it!”

“That’s the capitalist way.”

Gaby shook her head. “That wasn’t what I meant, anyway. Illya will be embarrassed. We’ll have to save them for his birthday or something.”

“Does Peril even have a birthday?” Napoleon wondered.

“Everyone does,” she pointed out. Whether he would tell them when it was, was a different question. If not, there was the New Year; she knew Russians exchanged gifts then. 

“I don’t know; they might have made him in a factory.” He looked on up ahead. “There’s a lot more to see, but if we turn off here we can get the Tube straight home.”

They had already bought as much as they could carry. “Okay. There’s too much to do in one day; we’ll have to come back another time.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon said. “Maybe Peril’ll come next time.”

“To help carry things,” Gaby teased.

“Of course.”

4.

Sunday, Illya was not quite sure what to do with himself. The library was closed, as were most of the shops and even the neighborhood pub. By afternoon, he was starting to feel a little pent-up in his room. He considered going for a walk, but the day was raw and damp—English cold was, of course, nothing like Russian cold, but he didn’t see any sense in subjecting himself to it for no reason. 

He decided to try the living room—it would at least provide a change of scenery, and he had as much right to be there as anyone. 

When he got there, however, he found that the room was already in use. Solo was lounging on the sofa, reading a magazine, while Gaby sat at the big table by the window, a disassembled sewing machine spread out in front of her. A charming domestic scene; all they needed was a small child playing on the carpet, or perhaps a cat. 

Illya felt a surge of anger. He did not, of course, begrudge them their happiness. But did they have to treat the entire apartment as if it were only theirs? First the cozy romantic dinners in the dining room, now this. 

Solo glanced up from his magazine. “You want something, Peril?” he asked, as if, since this was Solo’s room, Illya must have some special reason for being there. 

“No,” said Illya. 

Gaby turned around in her chair to look at him. “Are you all right, Illya?”

“I’m going for a walk,” he said, and did. 

5\. 

The Sunday roast was well past its prime, and moving toward dangerously dried-out, when Napoleon finally decided that he and Gaby had better go ahead and eat without Illya. Again. Since Illya had finally deigned to tell them where he was going, a simple walk, Napoleon had figured he wouldn’t be long. Particularly once it started to rain in earnest. 

“You don’t think he got into some kind of trouble, do you?” Napoleon asked as they picked at stringy roast and Yorkshire pudding that had gone slightly rubbery. 

“Illya?” Gaby asked.

“He’s been out a long time, and there’s nothing open on a Sunday.” He wondered if they should go out and walk around, calling Illya’s name. Like they had lost a dog. 

“I think,” Gaby said carefully, setting down her fork, “that he’s trying to give us some privacy.”

“What? Why?”

She gave him a look.

“But we aren’t—I mean.” Napoleon stumbled, wondering if Gaby also thought he was trying to seduce her.

“I know that,” she said, “and you know that, but I’m not sure he knows that.”

“Huh,” said Napoleon.

“I don’t think he’s spent that much time around people who actually like him,” Gaby went on.

“I never said I liked him,” Napoleon protested, automatically. At Gaby’s glare, he added, “I never said I liked you either.”

Gaby said something about how she had been raised by human beings; Napoleon didn’t catch all of it because the front door was opening. He heard muffled cursing, followed by two thuds. A moment later, Illya came walking by, in stocking feet and very bedraggled. “Peril?” he called, when Illya walked by without stopping.

Illya came back. “What?” he asked—demanded—pushing wet hair back from his face. 

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out,” Illya said, and walked on, giving Napoleon no opportunity to bring up the fact that he and Gaby did not have any particular need for privacy.

Gaby inclined her head in the direction Illya had gone. _Go after him._

Napoleon gestured at her, and then in the same direction. _No, you go._

She gestured again, more insistently. 

Napoleon went. Illya was in the kitchen, struggling with the can opener and a can of something that Napoleon was pretty sure had to be dog food. What was especially bewildering was that he had _moved aside_ the pan of roast beef to do it. “Peril,” he said, taking the can out of his hands, “you are a tragedy wrapped in an enigma.” 

He glanced at the label on the can; it proclaimed the contents to be beef stew, but Napoleon was unconvinced. 

“That’s mine,” Illya said, trying to take the can back.

“Who else’s would it be?” Napoleon asked, throwing the can in the trash and getting down a plate.

Illya growled inarticulately and went toward the trash; Napoleon wondered with dawning horror if he was still planning to eat the so-called stew. 

“You are causing me actual, physical pain here, Peril,” he said, quickly slicing off several ragged chunks of roast and piling them on the plate. “ _Get out of the trash_.”

Illya turned to look at him with a sad-dog expression. 

“We tried to wait dinner for you,” Napoleon went on. “That’s why.” He slapped some potatoes on the plate. “It’s a little.” He added a large slab of Yorkshire pudding. “Burnt.”

If Napoleon had still been harboring doubts that Gaby was right, Illya’s look of blank incomprehension would have settled them. 

“But it’s not too bad if you put enough gravy on it,” he continued, pouring some on. “Definitely better than—whatever that was. You eat Brussels sprouts?”

“What?”

Stupid question. You didn’t get to be Peril’s size without eating your veggies. And anything else that wasn’t nailed down. “Some people don’t,” Napoleon said, putting a big spoonful of sprouts on Illya’s plate. “Get started on that; there’s more if you want it.”

Taking the plate, Illya turned toward his bedroom, at the back of the apartment. Napoleon had to take him by the shoulders, turn him around, and steer him several steps in the direction of the dining room before he got the message.

Gaby was missing from the dining room when they arrived, but returned moments later, carrying a towel. “Illya, you’re freezing,” she said, dropping the towel over his head and rubbing vigorously. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“I’m fine,” Illya said, voice slightly muffled by the towel.

“Napoleon, get him some brandy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Napoleon said. He put on some coffee while he was getting it; hot drinks actually made you warmer, while alcohol only left you feeling like you were. 

When he returned, Gaby was gently scolding Illya about where he had been all this time. 

“I was taking a walk. Like I said.”

“In the pouring rain?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left.”

“I think we should be insulted,” Napoleon announced, handing the glass of brandy to Illya. “Peril would rather freeze to death in the rain than spend time with us.”

“We should,” Gaby agreed, giving one last rub to the towel before letting it fall around Illya’s shoulders. His hair, formerly plastered to his head, stuck up in tufts. 

Illya seemed about to argue, but apparently decided, now that he was free of the towel, to start eating instead. 

Napoleon followed suit, but Gaby kept hovering over Illya, fussing. “Napoleon was worried about you, you know.”

“I was not,” Napoleon said.

“You said, you wondered if he was in trouble.”

“I wondered if he’d _gotten into_ trouble,” Napoleon corrected. “I was worried about everyone else. Involved. In the trouble.” He stuffed some roast beef into his mouth to make himself stop talking.

Illya paused between bites to say, with so much sincerity that it was obvious he was messing with Napoleon, “I didn’t mean to make you worry, Cowboy.” He speared a sprout and chewed it meditatively. “I had no idea you were so attached.”

“Nobody said I was attached. I just, I bet there would be a lot of paperwork if something happened to you.” He looked over at Gaby for support.

“I think Mr. Waverly would have to fill out the paperwork,” she said. “But he might send us a new Russian, and we already have the best one, so….”

“And we just got him housebroken,” Napoleon added.

“That’s settled, then,” Gaby said, patting Illya’s shoulder. “You’re stuck with us.”

Illya put down his fork. Napoleon readied himself to jump out of the way if the table went flying—he liked this suit. But Illya just considered for a moment, then said, “Okay,” and went back to eating.

He polished off his first helping in five minutes flat; Napoleon was relieved to note that he didn’t actually growl when Napoleon went to take his plate, though he did look like he was thinking about it. He also looked decidedly surprised when Napoleon returned with seconds. 

Once they were done eating, they took their coffee and brandy into the sitting room. Gaby installed Illya on the couch, directly in front of the electric fire, and Napoleon switched on both bars—a practice he was given to understand the British reserved for emergencies, such as blizzard conditions, pneumonia, or, preferably, both. 

Russian views on the subject may have been similar, because Illya said, “I have been wet before, you know. It’s unlikely to kill me.”

Gaby shrugged expressively and sat on the couch beside him, tucking her feet up underneath herself and cuddling up against his side.

Illya glanced back and forth between her and Napoleon, as if waiting for Napoleon to object. Yes, Gaby was definitely right about what Illya thought. “Here in the decadent West,” he said, sitting on Illya’s other side, though not quite as close as Gaby was, “we have this crazy idea that just because something won’t actually kill you, doesn’t mean you have to put up with it.”

“That explains why it took you so long to put a man in space,” Illya noted. 

“And why we have no waiting list to buy a toaster,” Napoleon answered. 

Illya opened his mouth to argue, but Gaby guided her brandy glass to his mouth before he could. After drinking, he said, “We will have political education another time.”

“Good choice, Peril,” Napoleon said.

“That reminds me,” Gaby added. “I have a lamp for you.”

“A lamp?” He sounded like he was wondering if it was code for something.

“From the market. For your room.”

“A lamp,” Illya repeated. But this time he sounded pleased about it.

6\. 

Illya followed Gaby through the supermarket, pushing the trolley as she picked things up, looked at them appraisingly, and put them back down. She had informed him that morning that it was “their turn” to make dinner. Illya was a little alarmed by the notion that there were turns—this was the first he’d heard of it, so for all he knew he’d missed his already. And he didn’t know how to cook, anyway.

But Gaby had explained that Solo seemed willing enough to do most of the cooking; she simply thought they ought to do it once in a while. And he assumed that, since they were taking their turn together, his role would be to do what Gaby told him to do, which was familiar enough in outline that he thought it would be all right. 

They had decided that they might as well try shopping at this store—apparently something of a novelty even on this side of the Iron Curtain—where every kind of food was sold in one place. Up until this point, Gaby had seemed fairly sure of herself, but now Illya was beginning to have doubts. “What is it that we’re going to cook, exactly?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Gaby said. “I thought once we were here, something would come to me.”

“Oh,” said Illya. 

“I’m very good at eggs,” she went on. “And…well, you know how it is, back there. You just buy what there is, cook it somehow, and hope it’s edible.”

“I usually eat—ate—in canteen at work,” Illya explained. 

“But Napoleon makes _dishes_. With names. It’s a little intimidating.”

“You and Cowboy,” Illya said slowly. 

“Are teammates,” Gaby said. “And friends.”

“Right,” Illya said. “I knew that.” Even to himself, he sounded unconvincing.

“Like you and me,” she went on. “And you and Napoleon. Potatoes,” she said suddenly.

“What about them?”

“I’ve cooked potatoes.”

“I saw some back there,” Illya said, pointing back the way they had come. 

They returned to the potatoes. Potatoes, it turned out, were offered for sale individually or in sacks of various sizes. After considering these options for a long moment, Illya and Gaby reached as one for the largest sack, and wrestled it into the cart. 

You could never have too many potatoes.

(Late that evening, Gaby and Illya put on the table a dinner consisting of slightly burnt sausages and a mountain of mashed potatoes. Napoleon said it was delicious.)


End file.
